


Skye's the Limit

by ElasticElla



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:52:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a drunken bet of all things, when Melinda and Phil had reached the bottom of the tequila bottle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skye's the Limit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreshBrains](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/gifts).



> This is really more AR than AU, with Skye having never found the shield file and turning to art instead of coding. The tattoo in this looks like [this ^.^](http://elasticella.tumblr.com/post/124284876480/1337tattoos-james-armstrong) (and all the hugs to jordan for such a speedy beta!)
> 
> hope you like jess :)

It starts with a drunken bet of all things, when Melinda and Phil had reached the bottom of the tequila bottle. FitzSimmons had gone home around the halfway point, both yawning in sync into their cups. Ward had declined the invitation, his mentor being back around the base, and Tripp had escorted a swaying Simmons and a giggling Fitz back to the bus. (Melinda tries not to think about the trio in detail, but sometimes she just really wants to give Jemma a high five.)

Both had refused to stay on the base citing their precious research that certain individuals would just love to get their grimy mitts on. Melinda had considered telling them that if someone was that inclined to take their research they’d steal it virtually, but supposed neither half needed more nightmares.

“I bet you couldn’t even commit to a little bit of ink,” Phil retorted.

Melinda honestly can’t remember to what he's replying- which should have been enough of a warning sign- but instead she says, “How much?”

“Just a little-”

“To bet,” she corrects, tapping on the shot glass with her short nails. The light clinking reminds her of champagne toasts from years away, and Phil’s face has split wide with pure glee.

“Name it,” he says, “doesn’t matter, sober you won’t even get a tiny ‘x’ on your ankle.”

Melinda thinks for a moment, assessing her friend’s belongings through his odd value system, and finally says, “I’d like to drive Lola.”

Phil laughs grabbing at her hand to shake it, “Deal.”

She doesn’t realize until the following morning, head pounding and mouth fuzzy, that he never did specify what would happen if he won. To ask now though would be to imply she might lose, and Melinda certainly won’t be doing any of _that_. Instead of meditating, she spends the morning looking at various tattoos and their artists’ pages. By lunch, she has an urge to hit something hard.

(She _might_ break a punching bag, and it _might_ make her feel a little like Cap.)

The following evening they get their mission, a newly powered person saving people from buildings, and they’re heading back to the US. En route she recalls Victoria got her two-headed bird done in NYC. Switching to autopilot, an email and quick search later, she has an address. It'll do nicely.

Seven hours later, Mike Peterson is at Stark's apartment, because a bored Tony Stark has to meddle in their affairs, and Melinda has the rest of the afternoon off. Before common sense can replace pride, Melinda goes to Victoria' s place. It's a small corner joint, and doesn't look like too much and the expected cheesy sign almost makes her turn away: _Skye's the Limit_.

She's yet to meet a situation she can't walk out of, and with that in mind, she crosses the threshold. A light bell jingles and a blast of cool air hits her. Pretending to look at the nearest images, she identifies two exits and a worst case scenario pair of high privacy windows. She's the only one here besides the worker, and she could most likely take her. (There are some bruises around her knuckles that hint at street fighting, but nothing trained.)

“Hello, can I help you?”

Melinda wasn't prepared for a pretty voice, and turning, the rest of her is rather pretty too. And she still hasn't answered. Smooth.

“Dragonflies?”

The woman cocks her head, saying, “Huh.” A few awkward seconds pass, and she points to the far corner, “This way. Sorry, you don't seem the type.”

Melinda raises an eyebrow, looking over a dozen designs.

“I mean,” she says, “dragonflies tend to be for living life to the fullest, for how quick it can be. You don't strike that way.”

Melinda finds herself far too comfortable, but doesn't question it. “It's for someone I lost.”

“Oh, fuck I-”

She waves her off, “It's fine. Your boss doesn't mind you playing psychoanalyst with the customers?”

The brunette grins wide, “I'm Skye, the owner.”

“Melinda,” she says in response, trying to decide between two designs. Both are black outlines, the first with a medium dragonfly that would span her wrist, and the second upon a simplistic dotted flower.

A question bubbles up before she can help it, and it's been some time since her curiosity flowed so freely. “For a tattoo parlor owner, you don't seem to have many tattoos.”

Skye _winks_ at her, half ridiculous and half adorable, “Not that are visible.”

“Oh,” she says, her brain thankfully stopping any of her thoughts from verbalizing.

Stuffing her hands in her pockets, Skye asks, “So do you wanna see some more designs, or do any of these work?”

Melinda nods, eying her hands, “Can you put this dragonfly on that background?”

“Sure, lemme sketch it out for you.”

Skye goes behind the desk, fetching a sketchbook and pencil, and Melinda definitely isn't checking her out. That would be beyond unprofessional, and besides, she had at least ten years on her. (It's a quaint fantasy though, and she wonders what type of movies Skye likes, how she feels about heroes.)

The sketch is perfect, and Skye talks while she tattoos an outline on the inside of her wrist. She's impressed with her pain tolerance, and Melinda might internally preen at her words. She rambles on about growing up in orphanages, about discovering art and an ex girlfriend. Melinda prompts her whenever she falls silent, but she keeps herself from asking more about the mentioned ex.

Skye takes a break when the outline is complete, grabbing a bottle of water for each of them. “If you're cool with it, we'll do the dotting and some shading next. Unless you want to come back another time?”

Melinda's tempted to say she'll come back, but her work schedule's far too unpredictable for that. “Now's good. Besides, I haven't heard all your adventures about opening this place up.”

Skye laughs, capping her water bottle, “Nice try, it's your turn to talk.”

And for the first time in years, she does.

She fabricates most of the unimportant details, gives everyone new names to start. She talks about the child aloud for the first time, talks about how she knows she needs to let her go but can't.

“You can't save everyone,” Skye murmurs, and the sincerity almost makes her eyes moist.

_But I want to_ , doesn't need to be said, nothing does. Somehow Skye gets it, gets her. After, they'll go out to dinner already feeling like two people that have been dating for weeks. They'll trade kisses easily, and she'll remind Skye that her job means being away a lot. Skye will kiss her again, laughing, _I know, you've said so_.  
  


She confronts Phil once she's dating Skye, asks if this was somehow his plan. Phil laughs, and says he just wanted her to lighten up a bit so she’d stay on his team. She shrugs and takes Lola's keys, a perfect date already planned. (Skye _loves_ the flying car.)


End file.
